


three days on a drunken sin

by intoxicatelou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Hell, Queer Sam, Season/Series 03, Unrequited Love, Wincest - Freeform, cherry slushie kink, dean winchester needs a hug, guilty kisses, poetic angst, sad prose, this is all really angst and poetry and wincest, tw: alcohol, tw: bruises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intoxicatelou/pseuds/intoxicatelou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing your brother tastes like defeat and victory, but mostly whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three days on a drunken sin

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: me and one of my best friends wrote this fic entirely in our text conversation. this is a regular happening and for once, i decided to post so you all can suffer with our angsty minds. 
> 
> credit for this fic goes to me and breck. she's the best and the first and foremost reason i watch supernatural. 
> 
> title from Work Song by hozier bc that song is too wincest. 
> 
> pls comment and kudos and sob with us ok bye have a good day.

Kissing your brother tastes like defeat and victory, but mostly whiskey.

You just want him back and so you push your chapped lips against his bitten ones and ask.  
He doesn't answer, only takes your question and swallows it whole like the rest of you. Your soul sits drunk in his belly.

You shove your tongue down his throat trying to get it back. It doesn't work out.

He only touches you, really touches you, when he's too drunk to think about how he won't remember in the morning. How he'll wake up and blink the sleep out of his eyes and not notice how tense you are as you bring back shitty gas station coffee and beef jerky for breakfast.

He only touches you when he knows it will burn into your skin like a brand. He only touches you when you he knows it will haunt you into belonging.

He only touches you when he doesn't have the words.

+

You trace the bruises in dim lighting of a 7/11 bathroom. You press deep and watch purple turn to green uglier than his eyes, but just as dirty.

Suddenly you're gasping, suddenly you're wanting, suddenly you have to go.

+

You drink your cherry slushie and pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the hollowing of your cheeks, the red, spit-slick shine of your lips.

You pretend not to notice, but you suck harder.

Watch green apples turn into snake skin, watch white knuckles on leather seats, watch the parking lot of the motel come into clear view a lot faster than expected.

Watch ragged old jeans, smell the this morning's stolen cigarette, taste this night's three fingers of scotch. Ashes to ashes. Memorize everything.

Sink deep into his ribcage before he realizes he can't breathe that you are stealing something and he pushes you away with cash in your hand.

" Get the room, and don't wait up for me.”

You watch the tires scream out into the high way, you hear yourself.

The cherry slushie bleeds red on cement, and you wish it was your blood instead.

+

By the time he gets back, you're asleep between itchy, suspiciously stained motel sheets, and he's drunk for the fourth night in a row.

It's usually not this bad.

Sometimes you can get a halfway decent confession out of him before its rough hands and sweat and bruised collarbones.

Tonight is not one of those nights, you decide, as he passes out fully-clothed onto the twin-sized bed next to you.

You sleep on your side, with the broken rib aching, but you watch him and will yourself to fix this, to fix everything.

You can't, you are shattered glass and he is too good to throw you away. Still cuts his fingers using you to look at himself, because you know the only time he is ever honest is when he is inside of you,.

+

You wake up again hours later. Morning, this time. He's already outside, smoking and on the phone with someone. You sink back down and close your eyes, foolishly praying that he'll come back and inside and curl around you. You don't know why you bother anymore; no angel had ever answered you.

You still pray though, used to be to him, to his hip bones and to the dazed look he got when he sacrificed a part of you in each kiss. He was your god of choice. You sunk your knees into cemetery soil and worshipped.

You know if he takes you to a church, you'll finally say his name out loud and it will be communion but also retribution all in one. You tried to say it once and he clamped his callouses over your peach lips and begged, "Please". You only hear him say your name when he thinks you're asleep.

You live for the syllables, for the sweat drip drag of “Sammy” breathed out like air, breathed in like the devil. That's how you remind yourself he loves you.

He says your name like a prayer of his own, secret and tired. One he'll never get answered, one he'll never think to ask for.

Good things don't go to him, and you are the best he's ever touched. He doesn't know how to handle things he didn't have to fight for. You handle it for the both of you.

You gather his guns and put them in your lungs, so that when he finally is drunk enough to kiss you it tastes like a war ground, like something right.

You are in love with a soldier.

+

He comes back inside after he finishes his call. It wasn't a case, clearly, as he flounders in the doorway for a minute before heading to the bathroom and slamming the door, your fake-asleep mind be damned. You hear the shower turn on and allow yourself to sob in peace.

By the time he makes his way out of the bathroom, you're dressed and salivating over his wet chest.

You love wrong and when he comes out of the shower in a towel on his hipbones and the t-shirt sticking to this chest, you have proof.

+

You wish you were young again, young enough to believe all the stories he poured in your ears, sin about constellations and girls and monsters. You wish you could go back to when you knew the width of his spine like the back of your own hand.

+

He swallows hard when he notices your gaze.

“Thought i had a case, but, uh...i didn't."

You raise a singular, judging eyebrow. Clearly this is the route the morning will take.

“And?"

He stuffs his dirty clothes into his bag a little too roughly. “And, we have another night in this dump. i'm gonna take a drive, see if there's anything around town."

You say, "alright”, when really you want to say, “Take me with you. I want to taste strawberry ice cream off your tongue"

You just want to hear him laugh again.

You press your fingers to the bruise underneath your jawline, your last reminder of what happened.

He watches you and leaves, too tired to slam the door, and you wish he could. Because the door is you, and you still want.

+

The roof of your mouth is sore from your nightmares, and the poison inside of you sings. You say his name every time, you know your blood is not your own. You trick yourself into believing it is his.

+

You are the last thing between him and the guardrail, and the guardrail hasn't loved him the way you have.

The truth: it’s hard to hold onto a dead man but even harder to let go.


End file.
